by Tricia Dower
Mira listened, incredulous, as Rhonda told her that she, Angel, and Charles plunged to their deaths while climbing the Alps in the seventh century. They were close friends, young men all, eager for adventure before settling down. It wasn’t their first expedition. Charles had someone waiting for him and he’d promised her it would be his last. Angel had chosen the mountain face the three would climb that day. Mira had been as aimless as “a fart in a barrel,” as Rhonda expressed it, willing to let the others write her lines.
“What should I have done?” Mira asked.
“There’s no should or shouldn’t,” Rhonda said. “There just is.”
“Was Marko on that mountain, too?”
“No, he is your sister in that life and she has the same birthmark you do now. Then, as now, you believe one of you has to exit for the other to star.”
“Where is my birthmark?” Mira asked.
“I don’t play parlour games. You choose to believe or not.” Unless something unforeseen happened, Rhonda said, the probability was for Angel to marry Charles. Mira would have to be content knowing she and Angel had deeper relationships in other realities.
But this is who I am now, Mira thought, and now is all I can be content with.
Charles arrived that Friday. “He wants to meet you,” Angel said when she called to invite Mira to dinner the following night. “Please say yes.”
Seconds after Mira knocked, a tall, balding man with a barrel chest flung open Angel’s door. Balancing wire-rimmed glasses on the edge of his long nose. Over his charcoal wool suit – hadn’t Angel said casual? – he wore a navy blue bib apron that shouted Cocktails with Charles in orange letters. He handed Mira a little napkin that said the same.
“C-c-care to try my special mmmartini?”
“Why not?” Mira said. She’d had two fortifying beers at her place and was feeling loose. She stepped into the kitchen, steamy from whatever was in the oven. Angel lifted her gaze from the green peppers she was chopping, a wary look. Mira kissed her soapy-scented cheek and said, “Smells great.” Angel gave her a grateful smile.
“Where did you find that apron?” Mira asked Charles. “And the napkins?”
He’d had them custom made, Charles said, in anticipation of meeting Mira at Thanksgiving. Luckily, they were ready early.
“I’m flattered.”
“He’s been driving me batty getting ready for you,” Angel said. “Commandeered half the counter space for his bar.” She smiled indulgently at Charles, and Mira could see something pass between them, a history she couldn’t match – in this life, anyway.
“I’ll stand over here, then, out of the combat zone,” she said, sidestepping her way to the dining area. “Been to the storage locker, I see.” The table was set with a sky blue cloth, tall white candles, and china Mira had never seen. Only a week ago, she and Angel, famished and lazy, had sat there eating leftover chili straight out of the pan.
“Food tastes so mmmuch better when you take time to set a p-p-proper table,” Charles said. He was mashing mint leaves, lime juice, and brown sugar with a wooden thingamajig he called a muddler. He’d had one foot out the door, he stammered, before he remembered to slip it into his carry-on case. He was gesturing so widely he almost whacked Angel in the head.
What Mira would soon have in her hand, he said, was La Mojita, a drink he learned to make from a Cuban exile in Miami. “Angel was kind enough – p-p-patience personified,” he said, to drive him around that morning to find the fresh ingredients he needed. He had purchased the vital raspberry twist vodka in California, not wanting to leave that to chance. Because of his condition, he’d have his with juice. Mira must tell him what she thought of the real thing. Would she care to join him in the living room? What a scriptwriter this Charles was.
“I love this drink,” Mira called after him. The first sip had gone right to her head and she was softening towards him. Imagining him in lederhosen. Angel had cleaned up the place. It was usually littered with newspapers, GI Joes, unopened mail, and abandoned mugs with half an inch of cold tea in them. Mira watched Charles ponder where to sit before he landed on the couch next to the phoney palm. He seemed to swallow the space. The boys – more scrubbed and subdued than usual – were on the floor playing Battleship. Matty gave her a smile she wished Angel could see.
“Hey, boozlers,” she said, lowering herself to the floor beside them, careful not to spill her drink, aware that she wasn’t in total control.
“B-b-boozlers?”
“Private joke,” Mira said and winked at the boys.
Angel entered the room carrying a five-string banjo emblazoned with a gold eagle on the back. It must have been three feet tall.
“Look what Charles brought us.” She took a seat beside him.
“I didn’t know you played banjo,” Mira said.
“We don’t. Yet. Charles bought an extra plane ticket so he could keep it on the seat next to him.” She patted his knee. “He’s too much.”
Charles beamed and burst into loud song, “I come from Monterey-yay with a banjo on my knee.” Not a single stutter.
Anthony and Matty exchanged smirks.
“So, when were you in Miami?” Mira asked, hoisting her La Mojita in Charles’s direction.
“Mmmany times.”
“Charles manages his own investments,” Angel said. “He likes to visit the companies he invests in.”
“Do you play much baseball?” Mira asked him.
Charles looked appalled, as if she’d asked if he did much dope. “I wwwasn’t well as a ch-ch-child,” he said. “Nnnot much time for sports.”
Angel jumped in to say he’d had rheumatic fever as a child and it had damaged his heart. Medication seemed to be doing the trick for now, although his doctor had mentioned the possibility of valve surgery, something Angel intended to discuss with that doctor. Her voice had clothed itself in a nurse’s uniform already.
“The reason I asked about baseball,” Mira said, tripping over the words in a haste to reinsert herself, “is that Matty’s into T-ball and Anthony has been kicked up to the majors. The regular season was over by the time I moved in. I was planning to give them a good work-out between games next summer.” Rhonda had said to go for an Oscar, but first you had to win the part.
Angel gave Mira a look. Mira gave her one back that said, What? and swallowed the rest of her drink.
“Mira throws like a boy,” Anthony said to Charles.
“Correction. I’m a girl, so I throw like a girl.”
“If all goes as p-p-planned,” Charles said, “We’ll be taaaking the boys to the Oakland games. Season t-t-tickets.”
We.
“Boo, Oakland, boo,” Anthony said.
“That’s rude,” Angel said, giving him a stern look. “You’ll get to see the Twins when they play Oakland.”
“Neat,” Matty said.
Anthony narrowed his eyes.
“So, Charles,” Mira said, her mouth starting to feel mushy. “I’m curious. Why marry now, after all those carefree bachelor years?”
Angel stood abruptly, throwing Mira a cautionary look. “I’d better check on dinner. Time to wash up, boys.”
“Huh?” Matty said. Something new. The boys furrowed their brows and looked at Mira. She grinned and nodded towards the bathroom. They stood and slunk away.
Mira turned back to Charles. “Well?”
He slid off the couch and onto the floor next to her. “Mmmay I confide?” he asked in almost a whisper. “All mmmy life I have been afraid to taake a risk. Afraid to mmmake a mistake. I wwwant to d-d-do something worthwhile bee-fore it’s too late. Adopt the b-b-boys. Give them my nnname.”
Mira wondered what was wrong with the name they had, but she was touched by his candour. She felt singled out and trusted. It made her believe he really ha
d gotten the apron and napkins just for her. I wish I could remember you.
“Will you light the candles, Charles?” Angel said from the edge of the kitchen. Had she overheard?
Charles struggled to his feet. “Cer-er-tainly. Have they been lit beee-fore?”
“No, they’re brand new.”
“Then why don’t I taaake them into the hallway and b-b-burn them for a mmmoment?”
“Whatever for?”
He explained it was good manners to burn a new candle briefly in advance of a dinner party so the offensive smell of first snuffing would be out of the house when guests arrived. Since Mira was already there, he could accomplish the same objective by pre-lighting the candles in the hallway.
“How interesting,” Angel said. “Mira, will the smell of new candles offend your senses?”
Mira stood with a grunt. “Hell, no. I’ll even go out in the hallway and burn them with you, Charles.” He lit the candles where they were and gave Mira a rueful smile.
“So mmmany p-p-points of protocol I learned helping my p-p-parents entertain,” he said. “I mmmistakenly assume others know them, as wwwell.”
Angel squeezed his arm and said, “It’s okay. Even after all these years, we have lots to learn about each other.”
The boys came back and took their chairs. “What’s the yucky stuff in the rice?” Matty asked. Anthony snickered.
“Honestly,” Angel said. She picked up a bottle of wine from the table. “A gift from Charles for you and me,” she told Mira, filling their glasses. Charles was having water, the boys something orange.
“Then I shall have to make a toast,” Mira said. Angel’s eyes widened.
“To all the lives we’ve ever lived,” Mira said, lifting her glass, “and all we ever will.” She took a big sip.
Angel smiled. “Lovely.”
“Hear, hear,” Charles said.
Anthony said, “I don’t get it.”
They tucked into the meal, almost every bite punctuated by Charles exclaiming how exquisite it was. Mira had never seen anyone hold silverware that way. He didn’t shift his fork from his left to his right hand once.
“Which one of us went over the mountain first, do you suppose?” she said, looking to Angel and Charles in turn.
Charles gave her a questioning smile.
Angel said, “Pardon?”
“Just thinking about something Rhonda said. The Alps? Odelayheehee,” she sang.
The boys laughed but Angel looked perplexed, even a little annoyed.
“Guess you had to be there,” Mira said. She smiled at the boys sitting across from her. Her heart felt empty and full at the same time. People kept slipping out of her hands.
“Don’t pick up the asparagus with your fingers, Matty,” Angel said.
Mira got up, walked around to Matty’s place and cut his asparagus into small pieces.
“He has to learn to do that on his own,” Angel said, an edge to her voice.
Mira returned to her chair, replaced her napkin on her lap and locked eyes with Angel. “Do you enjoy robbing me of everything?”
Angel looked shattered. Charles coughed and Anthony said, “What?”
Mira studied her plate until the boulder in her throat crumbled. “I really miss my brother,” she said and stood. “Sorry for spoiling your evening.” She made it to the door quickly and stepped into the hallway. Angel was right behind her.
“Tell me what’s happening. I’m tense, I know. Sorry if I took it out on you. Should I walk you upstairs?”
Mira stood facing the wall opposite Angel’s door. “I’m fine. It’s not your fault we fell off the mountain, you know. I should have paid more attention.”
Angel stepped closer and let out a long, slow breath Mira felt on her neck. “Mira, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t and that’s what’s so hard to bear. We go through all these lives together then move on. A curtain drops across our memories each time, like we never existed before.”
Angel put her hands on Mira’s shoulders. “Sweetie, you will always exist for me.”
They would both say later they didn’t know how it happened. As Mira turned around, their faces were only inches apart. Angel’s breath had a fruity smell. Her mouth was as soft as fresh bread. It was a light kiss at first but accompanied by tremors of recognition. Mira was surprised she didn’t want to kick herself around the block later. Angel would say she felt little bubbles of Mira’s consciousness for hours.
Angel called early the next morning. “I told him I won’t leave you.”
“What did he say?”
“That his house is more than big enough.”
The Snow People: 30-46 AGM
I sprang not / more in joy at first hearing he was a man-child / than in first seeing he had proved himself a / man.
—Volumnia in Coriolanus
SELANNA
THIRTY YEARS AFTER THE GREAT MIGRATION
To the child in my womb I say: the blood passing between your heart and mine comes from the very first Snow People, two lovers who defied an ancient taboo and ate the liver of a polar bear. It should have killed them. Instead, it turned their skin and hair as white as the great bear’s fur and their eyes the colour of a glacial lake. The lovers had seven children, all with the same white skin and hair, all but one with the same startling eyes. For thousands of years, the lovers’ white-skinned, white-haired descendants worshipped The Land and survived on what it bestowed until even the winter ice began to thin and fewer of the fish they caught and fewer of the animals they hunted passed their way. One year the ice refused to return, and water swallowed The Land. The Snows loaded up their boats and began the Great Migration south. After many seasons, they landed on an island populated by people the Snows called Rainbows in a republic called New Columbia. The Rainbows took their boats away and the Snows could no longer hunt and fish. They could no longer worship The Land.
30 AGM. The sun was everywhere that May afternoon, gloating at its triumph over months of relentless rain. Gruzumi and I flowed out of the Village to collect with the others, like storm water, at the edge of the nature reserve – an undulation of alabaster bodies, most in mismatched clothes worn to softness, everything too short. We must have numbered a thousand. No more polite tugging on sleeves for promises of small gains. We were ready, at last, to reclaim the dignity of our elders.
Ada, as my mother insisted I call her, had stayed behind. “You’ll earn us nothing but trouble, acting so big,” she said earlier that day, leaning on the doorpost of the bedroom we shared, arms folded across her parrot-coloured blouse. Watching me step into the jumpsuit she’d made of black denim and striped cotton cadged from the recycling centre where she worked. No ill-fitting clothes for Adawalinda’s daughter.
“You refuse to see all they do for us,” she said. “They could put us on the street tomorrow, cancel our jobs, let us starve.”
“You refuse to see their ignorance,” I said, tucking my long, straight hair behind my ears in a way I knew she found too severe. I felt more powerful than she could imagine, bound to a mission I could not yet name. Reasoning with her was pointless.
“They’ll drop you from the program,” she said, lifting her dyed eyebrows into cartoonish frowns. “You can’t have it both ways.”
“I don’t care,” I said, which wasn’t true. I was one of few Snows admitted into the Sustainable Skills teaching program. Like my grandmother, Aaka Elin, I could tell you which plants healed, which ones poisoned. In less than two years, I would finish my training and explain to my students why mackerel swam in our waters but salmon no longer did, how evening primrose seeds could ease pain, that each part of a dandelion was useful. My students. They populated my inner world already. I’d spawned their need for me and mine for them.
“We wouldn’t starve,” I told Ada on my way out the door.
The Rainbows didn’t resent us at first. Visiting scientists needed meeting rooms, hotel beds, and restaurant meals while they tried to decode our genes. We attracted journalists and tourists who filled the streets almost year-round until I was six, before fuel surcharges kept away all but the wealthy and shut the ferries down. Some looked in shadowy doorways for Snows who didn’t mind trading on curiosity about the colour of the hair between their legs. Others tugged at our heads, convinced we wore wigs. If they stroked my head, I’d purr loudly to embarrass them. I stared openly at the many shades of their hair and skin, the pink of their fingernails. Aaka Earth had decorated them from her full palette. Except for our eyes, we merited only a single hue.
“Never mind,” Ada would say. “How boring if all butterflies looked alike.” She was happy for the cash tourists paid to be photographed next to us, our bodies rising heads above theirs, like Douglas firs among Jack Pines. She spent it on deep red lipstick when there was still lipstick to buy.
“How do you tell each other apart?” tourists would ask.
I could spot Gruzumi a block away, that hip-rolling, unhurried walk I counted on to calm me. My hands, alone, would have known him by the mole on the back of his neck, where his long braid began, and the smooth strip of his spine where it ended, by the cool, metal disk encircling a hole in his earlobe big enough for my pinky to go through.
Arms around each other’s waists, he and I burrowed into the crowd. Advised by an underground legal association, our Elder Council instructed us through red bullhorns that flashed in the sun: Courage, Snows. Stand firm for justice, but don’t resist arrest. Don’t talk back.
“The hell we won’t,” Gruzumi said.
Yeah. I pulled his face down and kissed his soft, pale mouth, brushed my nose across the strip of white fuzz edging his upper lip. He was my heart, pumping conviction into my veins as potent as any hallucinogenic fungus. I craved him more than justice.